Light from the Shadows
by Halcyon Impulsion
Summary: The Winchesters head north to hunt for a wild creature who loves the cold, Dean finds keeping warm is harder since Hell, and Sam can’t forget that he failed to save his brother. Will the Land of the Midnight Sun help them deal with Hell's aftermath?
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note: Thanks to hitchcock_starlet and to Julia for their friendship and mad beta skills. This is my space for Dean to deal with his time in Hell, so plenty of angst and introspection here, but a fun hunt too and tons of brotherly fun--oh and Christmas! This isn't going to be an epically long piece, and chapter two is ready to post so show me the love on this first chapter and you'll get the next one tomorrow :-) Enjoy and tell me good or bad what you think. Thanks for reading!_

_**Light from Shadows**_

From the ashes a fire shall be woken, a light from the shadows shall spring;  
renewed shall be blade that was broken, the crownless again shall be king.  
J.R.R. Tolkien, _The Lord of the Rings_

**Chapter One**

"I hate being cold," Dean muttered, the word _cold_ coming out like a curse.

"I'm with you, man," Sam agreed, blowing on his gloved hands and rubbing them together furiously. He stopped himself mid-scrub and glanced over to see if Dean had noticed. It wasn't like the motion would make much difference—the gloves were rated for arctic temperatures.

"Even after the burning fires of Hell, I hate being _cold_."

Sam's smile was hidden under the black balaclava that encompassed everything from the neck up except for his goggled eyes. "How long before it shows?"

"Hopefully before the frostbite sets in."

"Hypothermia'll be first."

"Smart aleck."

They sat shivering in the semi-darkness at the edge of the swiftly flowing ice river, using a large log as a blind as they scanned the tree line with night-vision binoculars.

"You and Dad ever hunt in Alaska before?" Sam asked with a convulsive shiver.

"Dad didn't do extreme temperatures." Dean gave a chuckle of amusement, shaking his head. "He hated the cold worse than I do—always called Wilhelm when there was a below-freezing job."

"Explains why we stayed in the lower 48."

"Yeah, I was always hoping there'd be a nut-job demi-god in Hawaii," Dean said with a grin. "Sunshine, piña coladas, beaches." He sighed dreamily. "And you know what's at the beach, right Sammy? Beaches have girls in—"

"Did you see that?" Sam hissed, cutting off Dean's description of his ideal tropical beauty.

"What?"

"Sixty yards. 2 o'clock. Up high."

"Dude, yetis climb trees?"

"Unless that's a raccoon the size of a polar bear, it would appear so."

Adrenaline warmed them briefly as they watched the creature clambering through the tops of a scraggly stand of evergreens. The trunks swayed crazily and both Winchesters furrowed their brows as they tried to figure out what the yeti was doing up there.

"Looking for food?" Sam wondered aloud, his teeth chattering.

"Playing Cirque du Soleil?" Dean countered, the cold causing his to stutter violently on the last word.

Sam was too cold to answer and he tried to bury himself deeper into the fur-lined hood of his parka. As quickly as it had come, they lost sight of it and finally Sam mustered the energy to speak, the seeping chill slowing his words and his thought processes.

"I think we'd better head back before we freeze to death."

"You mean you don't want your life to end as a Yeti popsicle?"

"Not particularly."

"Yeah. Me either," Dean said, "and my nose hairs are frozen," he complained, standing sluggishly and trying to shake some feeling back into his limbs.

Sam did the same, stomping his feet forcefully on the solid ground. His teeth were chattering harder now and he flicked his flashlight on with some difficulty—his fingers just didn't want to obey. "The guy at the lodge said the temperature would kill you in an hour and we've been out here almost two."

Dean smiled, his grin shadowy in the pale glow of the light that Sam held. "Winchesters have a higher threshold for _most _things than mere mortals, Sammy."

Turning on his own Maglite, he started down the trail they'd created on the way out to the gravel bars of the Aniak River. Thankfully it hadn't snowed in a couple days and the path was easy to find.

Sam had been looking for a gig in online newspaper archives when he'd found a pile of information on the mystical creature of the North and had convinced Dean that the strange disappearances (and copious amounts of blood left behind) were more than just bear attacks. It was less the evidence and more the desire Dean could see in Sam's expression that convinced him—against his better judgment—to go north for Christmas instead of south.

"Maybe we could see the Aurora Borealis." Sam grinned; his eyes alight at the idea.

"Yeah, maybe," Dean replied, his smile soft at Sam's excitement.

* * *

Reaching the Yonder Lodge's mud room in less than ten minutes, the stripped off enough of their sub-zero outerwear to be able to move freely inside and began the trek to their room. Passing through the main foyer, Dean slowed without noticing, mesmerized by the brilliant warmth billowing from the massive stone fireplace against the far wall.

The heat was hypnotically inviting to his cold bones but flinchingly reminiscent of . . . well, Hell. The conflicting instincts—to stay or run—simmered in his chest like a living creature as he stared at the blue and orange flames whirling in the grate.

"Dude, you're starting to steam," Sam said, nudging him from behind with his own armful of gear.

Dean turned his head, glancing at his brother. "Yeah, well so are you," he muttered darkly and started up the massive stairway made of whole timbers.

Sam didn't move immediately, his eyebrows rose quizzically at Dean's snappishness. He looked toward the fire as Dean had done, but nothing struck him as particularly worthy of contemplation. Sighing, he shook his head and followed his brother.

* * *

"So, we found the abominable snow man. Now what?" Dean questioned.

There was still an edge to his voice and Sam willed himself not to look up from the laptop screen. Dean was walking the room like a caged feline, stopping every minute or so to stare at the flames in the room's gas fireplace with what appeared to be a combination of open hostility and . . . something Sam couldn't place.

"Well, um . . ." Sam started slowly, more to fill the empty air than because he was ready with a plan. "I don't know. I'm looking for lore, but most of it centers on being killed by yeti, not by killing it," he offered. "The weirdest part about this is that these guys aren't native to Alaska . . ."

"Really. I thought they were all about the snow?" Dean asked, pausing to look at Sam quizzically.

"They are, just not on this continent. They're supposedly only found in the Himalayas."

"So this dude is seriously outside of his fly zone."

"Yes."

"What do you think it is?"

"Well, it wasn't a polar bear, and it wasn't a person," Sam said dryly, "But that's as far as I've gotten."

"Could somebody have brought it here and like . . . released it into the wild?"

"Maybe, but the research is completely inconclusive as to whether or not yetis even exist. I mean, there's less proof than there is for Bigfoot."

"Yeah, well, we've seen a lot of stuff that most people didn't think there was conclusive proof of, Sam," Dean said with a smirk, visibly relaxing.

"True."

Dean glanced at his watch. "You about ready for dinner?" he asked, his stomach growling loud enough that Sam could hear it punctuating the question.

"Sure. Let me close up."

As Sam saved the stuff he was working on and stood, he watched as Dean returned to pacing . . . returned to his staring contest with the glowing fireplace.


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's Note: Thanks to all who reviewed and those who added my to their watch & favorite lists! I really appreciate you taking the time :-) The next chapter has action, so don't worry, it's coming and it is almost ready—end of the week probably. Pineapple Bubble Tea Girl, you know who you are!_

**Chapter 2**

On the way down to the small restaurant housed in the back of the lodge, Sam decided to say something. If Dean didn't want to talk, the awkwardness created by Sam's introduction could be gone by the time they finished ordering. If he did want to talk, it would be a good warm up. He turned his head to glance at Dean, who was slightly behind him as they walked the narrow hallway.

"You okay?"

"Huh?"

"Everything alright?"

"Why wouldn't it be?"

"You seem a little distracted since we got back in."

"Sure. I'm fine, Sammy," Dean said steadily.

Sam didn't reply for a minute, but he watched Dean closely with his peripheral vision as they hit the bottom of the stairs and made their way across the open space of the entrance hall. Sam deliberately took a path directly across the space, within a couple feet of the blazing stone hearth. Dean didn't follow, but Sam saw him flinch slightly as he gave the flames wide berth and took the long way around.

As they entered the restaurant, Sam was torn. He'd told himself he'd let it go if the initial questioning didn't provide an opening. But, he _knew_ there was something going on in Dean's head now, probably Hell-related, and he hated the thought of his brother having to handle any of it alone.

They chose a table and opened their menus, and Sam had almost decided on the Blackened Halibut Caesar Salad when a quiet sound made him look up. Dean had blown out the little red votive in the center of the table and pushed it against the wall.

"Why'd you do that?" Sam asked without thinking.

"Why not?" Dean snapped, meeting Sam's gaze squarely.

Sam gaped at his brother, the hair on the back of his neck standing up. Dean had spent Sam's life being one of those guys who couldn't leave fire alone. Especially if it was right in front of him. Finger through the flames, knife through the flames, lighting up the napkins and seeing how long he could hold them before dousing the flames in the ice water, occasionally setting off a diner's smoke alarm with his pyro fascination. Sam had more than suspicion now, he had proof. Dean and fire were no longer dating.

The staring contest was interrupted by Josie, their waitress.

"You guys decided?" she asked, cheerfully unaware of the tension between the Winchesters.

Dean broke away first, grinning up at the young woman. "You have any burgers made with plain old cow?"

"Nope, sorry! Not a lot of cows up here," she said, laughing as she returned his smile.

"So, if I want a burger I'm stuck with—" Dean glanced down at the menu again, "moose, salmon or wild mushrooms?"

Josie nodded. "We do have regular steak though, if you aren't feeling adventurous," she said, leaning in more closely than necessary to point to the section of the menu she was referring too.

Sam waited a few seconds before interrupting the love-fest. "Thanks. I think we need a little more time."

Disappointed, Josie straightened and nodded. "Okay, just . . . wave, when you're ready . . ." she said, giving Dean a meaningful, coy look.

The older Winchester rolled his eyes at his brother and returned to his perusal of the menu.

"They've got sweet potato fries," he mused, mostly to himself, "Yum."

Sam made a face, and Dean raised an eyebrow at him. "This, from the pineapple bubble tea boy?"

* * *

Josie had taken her time writing the order down and leaving them to themselves. "Probably hard to see the notepad with her eyelashes batting that fast," Sam harrumphed to himself. There were times when Sam felt impatient to the point of fury when it came to trying to get down to the business of Dean's psyche. And Dean had a sixth sense about Sam's intentions it seemed. Unconscious or not, Dean made sure that he avoided whatever conversation Sam wanted to have as long as humanly possible.

"Dean . . ." Sam began, toying with his fork and spoon.

"Yeah, Sammy," Dean responded, his voice innocently cheerful, his eyes not meeting Sam's, instead studying the massive moose head mounted to the wall.

"I really want to—"

"So, I was thinking about Christmas."

If Dean had spent a year thinking up a phrase which would totally throw Sam off his game, he couldn't have come up with anything much better. Sam couldn't even sputter at the interruption.

"I mean, it wasn't all that bad last year, right?"

"Uh . . ."

"It was even sort of, fun. And the eggnog was killer," he grinned wickedly.

"Pretty much killed you for three days."

"And the tree? Dude, the air freshener ornaments were totally genius."

Sam shook his head and laughed incredulously, his eyebrows hidden high in his bangs. "Glad you liked it."

"Hey, you liked it too. That was the most expensive shaving cream you ever owned—I splurged, you know."

"Yeah, thanks again." Sam smiled, the tension he'd been feeling automatically beginning to slide away under Dean's reminiscing.

Dean's voice was quiet and serious as he spoke again, and he met his brother's eyes. "Thank _you_ again, Sam. I mean it. I know it wasn't easy for you." Dean's hand strayed without thinking to the charm hanging around his neck and he looked away, his gaze falling to focus on the unlit candle that he'd pushed against the wall.

When Josie brought clam chowder for Sam and chili for Dean, the atmosphere at the table was considerably subdued, and she blushed and hurried off when Dean's preoccupation with his own thoughts became painfully obvious to her. Sam felt the shift in Dean's mood as well and so he ate, and didn't interrupt.

Dean recognized he had a tendency to idealize his father and his childhood. In moments when he was able to stand outside and look at it through the lens of other people's realities, the truth of what he and Sam had been through bit like a bullet in the thigh. For all the big bads he could take down without blinking, the loss of the life they might have had and the horror and terror of what they'd been through was something he could only glance at sideways.

As much as he pretended oblivion to Sam's broken heart, Dean's memories of the Christmas just before he turned five were crystal clear. And his own heart was just as broken. Pretty much, that had been the last good Christmas. The rest of them had sucked. Holiday memories were one big old ball of disappointment after another.

He ticked off the list in his mind as he stirred mashed saltines into his bowl. Dad had shown up for, maybe, ten Christmases. Sam had been gone three and Dean had spent those alone. Half a dozen had been spent with Bobby or Pastor Jim (usually without their father). The rest had been spent in roach motels with the kind of bad food and non-festivities that pre-haunted Scrooge would have reveled in. A couple they'd spent with random hunters John just happened to be on a job with—the "monsters don't get holidays off and neither do we" speech was John's Christmas specialty.

Dean had always known that those hunts had more to do with John not wanting to deal than with supernatural emergencies, but his father's pain had been incomprehensible to his sons on some levels. Dean understood in theory, but had never been able to believe that it was a good enough reason—or even a good enough excuse—to skip the holiday and abandon your kids on Christmas Eve. Not that he'd ever breathed a breath of it to Sam or John, or even admitted to himself really until this last year . . . but he felt it now. He sighed deeply. _Just another gorgeous side effect of dying young, bloody and going to Hell._

Sam cleared his throat. "So . . ."

"So let's do it again. Plan on it. Maybe, like, go pick out a tree together," Dean said, his features turning boyish.

"You sure?"

"Yeah. I mean, last year there was like this, _reason _to do it, you know . . . it might be nice to smell the roses a little without the threat of eternal damnation," Dean said, the end coming with a snicker.

"Alright then," Sam smiled, feeling a strange sense of giddiness, of lightness inside of himself. "Christmas it is."


	3. Chapter 3

_Author's Note: Packing break chapter for hitchcock_starlet :-) If you like this chapter, leave a review, please. If you hate this chapter, leave a review, please. If you have anything else you'd like me to know, well . . . send me a psychic message (or leave a review), please. _

Chapter 3

They finished eating at a leisurely pace, and Dean flirted with Josie and left her a big tip before they made their way back up to the room. Once there, Sam returned to the laptop and Dean flopped back onto the bed, studying the raw wooden beams a dozen feet above them.

Comfortable silence surrounded them, and Dean began to drift off to the sound of Sam's fingers on the keyboard. Drawn back into his research, it was almost two hours later when Sam glanced at the clock at the bottom of the screen. Taking a moment to stretch, he glanced at his brother and then continued to parse through search results and make notes, a section of his brain thinking again about Dean's unusual behavior.

It was definitely focused around fire, and the obvious connotation was that it had something to do with Dean's time in Hell. On the outside, his older brother seemed to have recovered from the horrific experiences he'd had, but Sam knew from the "chick flick" moments they'd had in the last few months that what was going on inside his brother was complicated and painfully dark. Dean knew how to suck it up and be fine, and that wasn't always a good thing.

Taking a deep breath, he glanced at the bed where Dean lay with his mouth slightly open, a barely audible snore escaping. Time for a little test. Purposefully preoccupying himself with the website in front of him he spoke in a carefully casual tone.

"Hey Dean. Throw another log on, would you?"

"What?" Dean asked, sitting up and rubbing his face with his hands.

Sam didn't turn his head, "Put some more wood on the fire, it's getting low."

"Yes, sir," Dean grumbled, heaving himself off the bed. "You're closer, and awake, but whatever," he continued not-quite under his breath, "just let big brother do all the heavy lifting."

Grabbing a couple logs off the pile behind the door, Dean balanced them carefully as he crouched in front of the fireplace and moved the screen to the side with one hand. There wasn't much response from the first piece of wood, but as he set the second piece on top of it and the low fire danced up around it there was a loud cracking sound followed by a monstrous hissing.

Out of the corner of his eye Sam saw Dean tumble, and land sitting on the floor at the sound. As Dean gasped audibly and began to scrabble backwards, his eyes wide and mesmerized by the speaking flames, Sam was instantly on his feet.

"Dean!"

There was no acknowledgement of Sam's voice, and Dean moved frantically until he hit the foot of the log-framed bed, his usual litheness lost in the manic movement.

"Dean!" Sam repeated, fear choking him as he knelt in front of his quaking brother.

After what seemed like an eternity, Dean's eyes focused on Sam's and confusion replaced the terror that had filled them an instant earlier.

"Wha . . ." Dean began, moving instinctively into a crouch, the trip through his mental checklist evident on his face.

"You were adding wood to the fire . . . I don't know what happened. All of the sudden you were on the ground."

Dean's expression was one of disbelief and vulnerability and it did nothing to salve Sam's guilty conscience. The experiment had worked and now Sam knew for certain something was wrong—but the pain he'd caused his brother to get that information was evident and it made Sam's stomach churn.

"I . . . . was . . ." the elder Winchester's unfocused response was cut short as he started to cough, hard enough to double him over with his arms protectively across his ribcage.

Sam instinctively reached for his brother's shoulders, placing a palm on each, trying to look Dean in the eye.

"Are you okay?"

When nothing was forthcoming except deeper coughs punctuated by guttural groans, Sam was on his feet and to the bathroom and back with a paper cup of water within seconds.

"Drink, Dean—try and take a breath, just a short one," he said as he tried to keep the panic out of his voice. Dean was now hunched over, his elbows on his knees as he struggled to control the coughing, nearly in a fetal position.

It definitely wasn't helping, and Sam set the cup on the floor and knelt next to Dean, wrapping an arm around his brother's shoulders, gripping tight. The stress of the situation was evident in the tautness of Dean's upper body, and Sam could see the cords in Dean's neck straining hard.

"Dean, listen to me. You're putting more pressure on your lungs by leaning on them—you've gotta sit up. Come on, Dean, I'm gonna help you, okay?"

Not waiting for an answer which his brother was in no position to give, Sam braced himself and pulled on Dean, trying to haul him into an upright position. At Sam's movement, Dean instinctively began to fight and within a few seconds Sam felt an elbow connect with his jaw, which laid him flat on his back.

It took him only less than a minute to recover from what would have taken most men ten times longer. As the stars cleared from his vision, Sam could still hear Dean's cough—the kind the usually led to retching—and he willed himself upright. Dean was standing now, braced against the footboard, arms locked at the elbows and shoulders. The water had been knocked over in the scuffle and in a smooth movement Sam had picked it up off the floor and was back at the bathroom tap, talking all the while and trying to sound calm and confident.

"I'm getting some more water, keep trying to take short, slow breaths, okay? Try to relax your chest and your shoulders—don't think about holding it in. Think about your lungs opening up." Sam pulled himself up and strode to the bathroom.

Then he was standing next to his brother, with the water in hand. The hacking seemed to be letting up and Dean didn't flinch this time when Sam put a hand between his shoulder blades. Sam stood completely still, willing his own heartbeat to slow. His eyes were focused on Dean's knuckles, bleached by anxiety, the rough pine caught fast as a lifeline.

Dean's coughing slowly became less violent and less frequent. Under his palm, flat against Dean's spine, Sam could feel his brother's muscles start to release. Finally, Dean turned his head to look at Sam for a long moment, his expression closed, his eyes brimming with the tears induced by his inability to breathe.

He nodded at the water in Sam's hand. "That for me?" he asked, his voice a husky whisper.

Sam swallowed hard and gave the glass to his brother; dropping the hand from Dean's back he took a half step back. Dean straightened slowly and turned to sit on the rail, then drank deeply.

They were now facing the fireplace again, which was burning merrily and in merciful quiet. While Sam stared at the glowing tendrils of flame—the one this time unable to look away, Dean kept his gaze locked on his own hands, the plastic cup gripped tight enough that it bowed under the pressure.

Eventually, Sam spoke. "You okay?"

His question was met with silence, and Sam stayed quiet, his inner conflict heating up as the seconds ticked by.

He should have pressured Dean differently; tried to insist on talking it out. As closed up as he was these days, Dean was also more open than he'd ever been—at least since Sam was about eight. Which was mighty strange considering Sam's own secrets had created more barriers recently than Dean's ideas of macho man (non)conversation.

Sam's angst was interrupted by the sound of his brother clearing his throat. As Dean stood, Sam did too, but Dean's next movement was so unexpected that Sam could only gape.

Dean strode purposefully toward the fireplace, leaving the empty glass on the desk as he walked past it. He paused briefly at the stack of wood and then hefted a log in one hand. Carefully, Dean knelt again in front of the blaze and added the third log.

The rigidity in Dean's shoulders showed his smooth efficiency a mask, and Sam felt tears of frustration and anger well in his chest.

"Dean."

Turning his head so his profile was outlined, Dean responded. "Yeah, Sammy."

"I . . . are you . . ."

"Fine, Sammy. I'm fine."

They both knew it was a lie. Yet neither could breach beyond the familiar exchange; the response the older sucking-it-up brother gave the younger brother he was duty-bound to protect.

So the seconds ticked by, and finally Dean stood up and looked at Sam and grinned—

"Room service? I'm feeling like nachos, and you probably need some carrots or something; brain food so you can figure out how to bag us a yeti."

Sam couldn't help the lopsided smile he gave back as he watched Dean reach for the phone. As worried as he was, Sam couldn't break the rule. In his own way, Dean was calling "uncle" as loud as he could and so for the moment, that had to be that.


	4. Chapter 4

_Author's Note: Thanks for waiting everyone! I think we have three more chapters of this one and that's it, so hopefully this moves you forward just a little and you like it. Thanks especially to hitchcock-startlet (for everything), bhoney (for not letting me forget) and gr8read (for the push tonight). Please review—I write for you; so tell me what you like and what you hate and what you want!_

Chapter 4

Exhausted by the yeti stalking and the craziness of Dean's episode, the Winchesters were in bed asleep before midnight. The morning started with breakfast in the dining room and then more research.

Sam worked the laptop and Dean worked the phone, both reaching out to various hunting contacts in hopes of figuring out what to do with their new furry friends. Lunch came and went and they still hadn't managed to find any useful leads.

Snapping his phone shut, Dean turned from the window he'd been staring out as he made calls. "Well, Demian is pretty much with you on this, and he had some ideas."

Sam had been half listening in on the conversation for the last ten minutes or so, when the change in Dean's voice indicated he was meeting with some success. "What'd he say?"

"He says it's a mythical creature—and his version fits with the stuff we were leaning toward."

"Okay, so what does he think we should do? Has he ever hunted one before?"

"No, but his uncles supposedly did, back in the 30's."

"Really? Where?"

"Himalayas. And before you ask if we can chat them up; they're all dead."

Sam's expression became noticeably gloomier; "Anything actually useful?"

Dean smiled, "Wouldn't you like to know?" Without waiting he spoke again. "To listen to old Demian tell it, his uncles—Boris, Yuri and Dmitri—were a pretty spectacular sight in the good old days. They spent their final years in the mountains traveling between villages that needed help fending off the local wildlife."

"I can't think that paid too well . . ."

"The natives treated them as honored guests and Demian said the villagers paid them in gold and wives," Dean said with a sly smile.

"Nice work if you can get it," Sam grinned.

"Yup."

"So . . ."

"Bottom line, he's going to do a little checking and get back to us. He says that they don't have any supernatural powers they're just massive, strong, and mean. And they smell like walking death."

"Excellent."

"The Brothers Balakov took them down by tranq-ing them with some kind of herbal concoction—local Himalayan stuff—and then just—"

Dean drew a hand across his neck and made a squishy, sucking sound.

Sam raised an eyebrow and leaned back in his chair, making a low whistle as the front legs left the floor.

"That's what he's checking on; the herbs," Dean said.

"Anything about how the thing ended up here?" Sam asked. "I mean, it's not like it just walked on down Everest and hopped a boat to Alaska."

"My guess is that someone had it shipped in for sport and couldn't quite keep up."

"Could have been for research," Sam offered, cocking his head.

"Maybe. Not a lot of places that could keep this puppy perfectly chilled."

"True enough," Sam said, his gaze faraway as his brain tried to work the case's questions.

"So what do you want to do while we wait?"

Sam glanced at his watch and sighed. "It's almost noon—how about lunch?"

"And then a nap," Dean nodded.

"You okay?" Sam asked, his focus returning sharply to his brother.

Dean growled and glared, but the implied threat didn't frighten the concern off of Sam's face. "I'm fine," he said in a dangerous tone, daring Sam to push the issue. Raising an eyebrow, Sam stared hard at his brother, reflexively assessing what he saw. Dean broke away first, as he often did these days.

"Let's go," he said, terse and tired.

* * *

"Salmon salad sandwich for you," Josie said, setting the plate in front of Sam, "and prime rib with garlic mashed potatoes for you!" she said with a grin at Dean.

Both boys thanked her (Dean more enthusiastically than Sam) and they dug in. Dean kept his gaze on his plate, carefully avoiding the possibility of catching his brother's eyes. When Dean wasn't in a talking mood Dean wasn't going to react well to the kind of wheedling Sam had in mind, so Sam just watched him and thought about what he'd seen in the months since Dean's escape from the Underworld.

Dean was still leaner than he'd been before Hell, his features more defined because of the weight he'd lost since coming back. It was one reason Sam had began to push that they stop and eat, at a table, in a place with a menu. He'd noticed pretty fast that their usual pattern of drive-ins and gas stations allowed Dean to hide the fact that he wasn't eating much.

When Sam pressed, Dean would mutter something about snacking while Sam had been asleep (which Sam was convinced was a lie), or promise to grab something next time they stopped (a promise he wasn't often keeping).

The sharpened angles of his jaw and cheekbones, the bridge of his nose and his wrists, were not minimized by the dusky smudges under his eyes. Sleep was also an apparent problem for Dean, and his exhaustion was etched even more deeply today.

Dean was quiet—he'd always had the stealth of a jungle cat—but just as Dean possessed a sixth sense when it came to Sam, Sam had the same ability to read between the lines when it came to his big brother. He knew that since coming back Dean spent a lot of time staring at the ceiling in the dark instead of sleeping.

More than once Sam had almost sat up in bed at 3:27 in the morning and called Dean on it . . . but something he couldn't give language to stopped him every time. It didn't take a professional shrink to see that Dean was struggling, and he had good freakin' reason for it. But even knowing that the _healthy_ thing was for Dean to talk to someone—to get help working it all out—it was hard for Sam to step beyond the boundaries set by their father.

It'd taken serious time for Sam to even begin to let his own guard down and Dean hadn't had the benefit of Psych 101 and free campus counselors . . . or Jess. Dean only knew one way to deal—the way John Winchester's example had taught him. Suck it up, kill a monster, box it away, leave it at the last stop on the way out of town.

He didn't fault Dean for the dysfunction, and it was, he supposed, the reason that he'd waited this long, even with the lack of eating and sleeping. It was way too personal, in the Winchester world, to get into someone else's head—to assume you could fix something. John had been a firm believer that talking didn't help and the only way to heal a person's innards was to leave them alone to die or work it out themselves. For Sam to try and coax Dean into facing the trauma he'd experienced seemed both a gross invasion of privacy and like stepping on the kind of crack that could break your brother's back. It felt like treachery.

Sam watched as Dean buried half the steak under the mashed potatoes and piled the steamed broccolini on top of it. Dean wasn't alright, no matter what he said, and this latest development—the weird reaction to fire—was too much. Sam couldn't just sit on his hands and wait for his brother to really fall apart.

His preoccupation was interrupted by Josie clearing their plates and Dean ordering wild blueberry pie for both of them, Sam decided that there would never be a good time for this, and at least in public Dean was less likely to run, holler, or hit him. So waited until the pie was delivered and then took a deep breath and set his jaw and his heart for the fight.

"Dean, I'm worried about you," he said, his voice low and easy.

The fact that Dean didn't look up from his plate, was an indicator that the elder brother had been expecting a "conversation". Dean sighed and leaned back in his chair, the fork in his hand still as stone. Except for his chest rising and falling he didn't move at all and it appeared to Sam like Dean was frozen as the tundra surrounding them, as if waiting for an assault.

It was the last thing Sam wanted his brother to feel, but he wasn't surprised by the reaction. He wished he could think of another way, a quicker way to get past the worst of this. Something more like ripping a Band-Aid off a nicked finger than this . . . which felt more like slowly removing a sticky, bloody bandage from a gaping chest wound. He sighed quietly and tried again.


	5. Chapter 5

_Author's Note: This double-length chapter comes to you with special thanks to the Silver Lake retreat crew, particularly ambientstargazer, my new fab ff spn friend! And the majorly prostar hitchcock_starlet, as per usual. This chapter was really difficult for me to write, and I hope it works. If you think it does, please tell me. If you don't, please tell me. That's code for reviews, people :)__ Bon appétit! _

* * *

**Chapter 5**

"I'm worried."

Dean still didn't answer, and Sam watched the muscle in his brother's jaw pull taut which was usually Dean's first manifestation of emotional stress. Sam didn't move, and they both sat unstirring, Sam's eyes steadily searching Dean's face, Dean motionless except for the jaw.

Sam watched, insides flipping uneasily as Dean's eyes finally, slowly, raised to his.

"Don't."

All of Sam's apprehension coalesced and intensified when he heard Dean's one, whispered word.

"Dean—"

"Did you hear me, Sam?" Dean asked, his voice harsh and heavy.

Sam nodded once and swallowed hard. But he couldn't let it go. He'd never been able to let things go. He could sometimes be quiet for awhile, but it always came out; ate him until he had to let it gush or he'd implode. And this time it wasn't about his own wounds, his own feelings. It was about Dean. About his brother.

There would only be one shot at this—Sam knew it—and so he breathed a quiet sigh and spoke. His answer came with less force than he meant it to, showing more uncertainty than he intended.

"No."

They'd been looking at one another, into one another. Two gazes, level and unyielding, filled with masked and tightly held fear.

"What did you say?" Dean breathed, and for an instant Sam could have sworn it was John Winchester sitting in front of him.

The look and the tone so intensely belonged to his father that Sam automatically pushed back from the table where his elbows had rested, folding his arms in defense and defiance.

Whether it was the visage of John superimposing itself on Dean's face and prickling Sam's rebelliousness or his own desperate need to save his brother from being bound to the hell he'd suffered , it might never be clear. But regardless, the heat in the pit of his stomach kept Sam talking.

"I said, _**no**_, Dean," he whispered, his voice full of the gravelly pain he felt at hurting his brother. "I'm not going to stop until this is done."

"It's done, Sam—"

"It's not, not until we've got this figured out—"

"There is no '_we_' when it comes to this," Dean said, shoving his chair back from the table and standing up in a single feline movement. "And come to think of it, there is no '_this_' either." He turned away from Sam and then stopped, his head turning just enough that Sam could see his haggard profile.

"I told you; I'm fine, Sam. Really. I'm going to be okay. I don't need help," he said quietly, his voice more tired now than angry. And he began to walk.

Sam was up in an instant and in two strides had crossed the space that separated them, catching Dean's shoulder from behind.

"Dean—wait,"

Dean spun around as if stung, pushing Sam's hand off roughly.

"Get off me, Sam," he growled and the two faced each other, determined and yet bound.

Neither flinched, and the seconds stuttered by as a man's last breath. Sam watched Dean swallow hard before the elder brother spoke.

"I won't do this with you. I went alone—by choice—and I got out alone. Nobody forced me down to Hell, Sam, and I dug my way out of _my own freaking coffin_—"

"Dean, I tried—I tried everything, man—" Sam broke in, unable to keep the choking sob out of his throat.

"For the last time, and I mean the _last time_, I'm not blaming you for anything—none of this was your fault, Sam. It just was what it was," Dean said, his vehemence underscoring the words he spoke with truth.

They didn't notice someone approaching (or how loud they had become), until the grandfatherly innkeeper spoke.

"Is there a problem, boys?" he asked discretely, his eyes glancing uneasily between the two.

"No problem," Dean said with a flip smile. "Sorry if we scared the tourists—we were just leaving." He dug in his pocket and pulled out some cash. "This is for Josie, tell her it was great." He winked as he handed it to the man, and turned on his heel.

Sam stood stock still for an instant and then, nodding apologetically to the owner of the inn, bounded after his brother. Dean was halfway to the top of the grand staircase when Sam caught up to him.

"Wait," he hissed, controlling his desire to reach for Dean again and physically make him stop running.

Dean made no sign he noticed Sam's presence, stoically continuing his movement. In a second, they had reached the door to their room without the hot coals of furious silence cooling any.

Sam was last in, and after closing the door he rested heavily against it and closed his eyes. The words were glowing in his head and strangling him but he fought them—he was not going to say them out loud. _This is not about me, this is about Dean. I have no right to ask him to absolve me._

Opening his eyes, Sam found his brother staring out the picture window on the far said of the room. Arms tucked and shoulders tight, he was leaning against the side of the window's frame with his head on the pale, stripped pine pole. The image of Dean alone and hurting and stubborn, was superimposed in Sam's mind with scenes from the visions he'd had of his brother in Hell, and the words came out whispered and unbidden.

"How can you not blame me?"

Instantly, he hoped that Dean hadn't heard. He watched his brother's back, mesmerized, waiting.

Dean didn't turn, and Sam had to lean forward to hear the quiet words that came next.

"Because you're my brother, Sammy. Because I love you, and I know you."

With that, they were face to face across the big room and Sam looked away, even as Dean dropped his protective stance and took two steps toward him. Glancing up for an instant, he was surprised to see Dean's expression open and earnest, but internal reproach clutched at him again and he dropped his eyes.

"I remember the first time I held you, Sam—I was little, but you were littler. I remember the way I felt and I remember that feeling every time a fight comes down to the possibility of losing you."

Sam couldn't meet Dean's gaze and he felt the guilt and fear he'd pushed down for months come burbling up to sting in his eyes. Dean moved closer again and his voice, though tired, was filled with softness that Sam usually only heard through a bloody, mostly-unconscious haze after a bad hunt.

"Cold Oak . . . Cold Oak killed you Sam, and it killed me too."

Sam swallowed hard and scrubbed a hand over his face, but one glance at Dean and he looked away again.

"I started protecting you when we were both babies, Sam, and giving up my life for you wasn't ever a question for me. Not because Dad taught me to, or because I had to, but because you're my _brother_. The only constant since the demon killed Mom. The only one who understands—" Dean's voice faltered for a second and he took a deep breath and walked to stand in front of Sam.

"Without you, what do I have, Sam? What do I have?" he asked, his tone gentle but insistent.

"I . . . if I hadn't . . . you shouldn't have made the deal, Dean," Sam said, his voice raw and his jaw trembling.

"Why?" Dean asked, and the single word drenched rare tenderness.

"You shouldn't have gone to Hell. You didn't deserve Hell . . ."

Dean gave a short laugh and Sam's head shot up as his brother spoke. "I don't know," he said, his smile twisted in self derision. "I've done a lot of killing and I'm not exactly on the top of the pure and holy list."

"You shouldn't have gone to Hell, Dean," Sam erupted. "You're _good_. You . . ." he trailed off and the building tension he'd felt for the last couple days forced him to move. Side-stepping his brother, he strode across the room, stopping as he faced his desk and bracing his palms against the top of it.

Dean turned to watch him and could see the stress roiling off Sam in waves and a frown creased his forehead and tightened his jaw.

"I'm okay Sam, I lived through it—"

"You're not okay, Dean! You were tortured and they made you torture . . . "

"But Sam—"

Sam faced his brother, "I saw it Dean; I had visions while you were down there—visions of you."

"What?" Dean whispered, color draining from his face.

"I saw, suffering Dean . . . I was watching." Sam said. his voice and visage apology and mourning in equal parts.

Dean swallowed hard and now it was he who couldn't his brother's gaze. Staring past Sam, out again at the dead and frozen landscape, his jaw worked while his mind raced. Finally a phrase floated through the chilly haze; sucker punched.

He'd spent his life trying to protect Sam. At Cold Oak he'd failed and had willingly paid the price—the price to give Sam his life back; to save him. To _spare_ him Hell. And once again the universe, or God, or maybe even the Devil had taken the one thing Dean Winchester had wanted.

His eyes were grim and tired as he gave a short laugh of disgust. Focusing on his brother's face again, the angst he saw seared tight and painful against his ribs. Shoving his own torment down deep he spoke.

"Sammy," he whispered. The desire to reach out physically was overpowering and yet Dean resisted it.

Their eyes locked, and the dampness in his baby brother's eyes and the quaver of his chin flashed Dean back 10 years, 20 years—and his desperation took control.

"Sammy—hey. Look at me." There was no response and Dean took two more steps toward Sam. "Look at me," he said again, his tone evoking a shadow of John Winchester. Slowly, Sam obeyed and Dean steeled himself to say what he needed to say.

"It was not your fault. There's nothing you could ever do to keep me from doing what I do. To keep me from taking care of you," he paused. "I may want to lock you in the trunk to shut you up or keep you out of trouble sometimes," he said with a snarky grin.

"But Sam, I love you. I did this for you. And I won't take it back."

"They hurt you, Dean," Sam breathed.

"And it's over. It's done. I'm not sorry and if you don't stop with the guilt, Sam, it's going to kill us both. It's going to kill _me_, because I can't watch you do this to yourself."

"But Dean—"

"Nope—I'm not sorry," a soft smile lifted the corner of Dean's mouth. "And I'm not mad at you."

Sam sighed and pushed at his eyes with the palms of his hand.

"At least not about Hell, Sam." He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "I wish you hadn't seen it though. And I wish you told me," he said with a jab of his finger.

"What are you mad about, then? If it's not about me sending you to Hell?" Sam asked, puzzlement creasing his forehead.

Dean gave him a warning look and cocked an eyebrow. "I'm mad about _that_. It's like, you refuse to accept how much I love you, Sam. That it's the whole reason I made the deal. And having you refuse? It feels like a knife—like thrust and twist." Dean flipped his wrist for emphasis. "Like you don't think it was worth it.

"I'm not sure it was," Sam growled under his breath.

"Seriously? What did I just say?"

Sam was quiet and Dean could see the wheels turning as his brother tried to work it out in his head.

"You trusted me for a lot of years, Sammy—"

"I still do—I've never stopped trusting you," Sam said, panic in his voice.

"—then trust me when I tell you that it was worth it," Dean said quietly, his gaze steady on Sam. "As long as you're alive . . . as long as you're okay . . ."

Neither spoke, and Sam swiped at his eyes with a forearm. When Dean spoke, his voice was strained and earnest; pleading.

"Just take it Sam. I don't know if I'll always be able to save you, no matter how hard I try. This time I could . . . and I'll do it again and again and again no matter how many times I have to go to Hell and back. You're worth it all Sammy—every second I spent in Hell was worth it to know that you were going to be alright."

An almost silent sob broke from Sam's throat and Dean had never been closer to breaking than that moment.

"So don't throw it away—don't act like it was nothing to you. _Be_ okay, Sam—if you want to do something for me, then do _that_."

He knew Sam wanted to hug, but the last modicum of strength holding him together right now was going to dissolve into nothing if that happened.

"And early morning coffee runs for the next year," he said wryly, sticking his hands in his pockets and taking a casual step back.

"Dean," Sam managed.

"Think about it Sam," Dean said seriously, "Think about what I said."

"But _you're_ not okay!" Sam said angrily. He expected a flippant reply and waited for it, ready to ignore Dean's request and focus on his big brother's issues again as he'd originally planned. The pause was seemed to last a long time.

"I'm not."

"I knew it—"

"But I will be," Dean continued quickly. "I will be, if you can give me some space, and trust me to work it out and get busy dealing with your own stuff."

"My stuff?" Sam asked in genuine surprise.

"Guilt, dude," Dean rumbled, "Guilt and _Ruby_. Two things you've got a lot of that are _not_ alright with me and that you are into up to your freakin' eyeballs."

Sam was about to protest when Dean's phone rang and he grinned and held up a finger as he reached around Sam and grabbed his phone off the desk, glancing at it.

"Saved by the bell," he mouthed as he answered Demian's call.


	6. Chapter 6

_Author's Note: I'm grateful for the reviewers and passers-by that wrote and told me to finish this story. It's almost done and I apologize for the length of time it's taken. Hopefully this will be wrapped up soon, in another couple chapters so keep the reviews coming people, it really does help to know you fabulous people are actually reading this. And as always, thanks to hitchcock_starlet (The Magnificent)._

**Chapter 6**

Dean's call from Demian lasted almost a half hour, and Sam used the time to sit down at the laptop and pretend to be doing something useful. In truth, as he stared and clicked and cocked his head now and again, he was still reeling from the massive emotional flood he'd just experienced.

The conversations he'd had with Dean wherein the elder brother exposed himself with so much brutal honesty, could be counted on one hand—for the sum of their two and half decades together. Most were in the last year.

And the last thing he had expected when he'd begun this talk with Dean was the reversal that had happened. He'd practiced in his mind a hundred times how he would deflect Dean's attempts at twisting the direction of the subject away from the apparent issues he'd been having since returning from Hell. But Sam had not considered that _he_ would be so skillfully maneuvered into showing his own personal pile of hang-ups, by his (supposedly) more emotionally stunted brother.

Roused from his reflection by the snap of Dean's cell shutting, he turned in the chair, an arm loosely draped over the slatted back.

"So?"

"Demian wants in," Dean grinned.

"Where is he?" Sam asked, "Alaska isn't exactly close to anything . . ."

"Nah, he's in Poland. He'll be here tomorrow night though," Dean replied.

"Seriously? He's coming from Poland?"

"For the chance to bag a yeti, just like his uncles did in the good old days? That would be a yes," Dean said with an emphatic nod.

"Wow. So what do we need to get ready?" Sam questioned.

"That's the beauty—he's bringing everything we need. The herbs to drop this bad boy can only be found in the Himalayas and he just happens to keep some in his stash," Dean answered.

"Cool."

"So that means we have some time to relax," Dean said, swallowing a yawn at the end of the sentence.

"I guess . . . what do you want to do? I mean, we're sort of stuck in the frozen tundra out here," Sam said. "Drinks and pie downstairs?" he said, the corner of his mouth turning up in a hesitant smile with the peace offering.

Dean chuckled, and raised an eyebrow. "I don't know how the old man down stairs is going to feel about that—I got the impression he'd be happy if we never darkened his dining room again."

That made Sam laugh. "I should apologize," he said ruefully.

"Maybe the chef will let you into the kitchen in the middle of the night to bake him some cookies," Dean smirked.

There was an easy lull and they both felt the tightness in their chests begin to release. Dean broke the silence with a deep sigh, and eased down onto his bed, reaching for the remote on the nightstand. Pulling off his shoes, he dropped one on the floor and threw the other at Sam's head, missing by a milli-fraction.

"Jerk!" Sam spat, the jest in his eyes belying the acidity of his tone.

"Order us up a few cold ones, Sammy. And toasty moose nachos or whatever passes as bar food around here," Dean directed with a languid yawn. "I'm going to find us some NCIS or CSI or something with an official acronym to drown my sorrows in."

* * *

They ate and drank and Dean and Sam debated the finer points of Ziva David and Caleigh Duquesne. Eventually, both were drowsing through the muted post-midnight infomercials when a log in the fireplace shifted against the grate, sending smoldering sparks through the dimly lit room.

"Sam!" Dean growled as he slid from his bed the floor, knife in hand, instinct driving his movement.

Sitting up on his elbows, Sam surveyed the room, pushing aside the mental vertigo that always came when he awoke in darkness. Nothing stirred and Sam glanced down at Dean. Again, his eyes roamed the shadowy corners of the room and then he carefully swung his legs over the side of the bed and crouched next to his brother.

"Dean," he said quietly, "Dean, there's no one here."

Dean didn't budge or breathe and Sam inched closer, deliberate in avoiding physical contact.

"Hey," he said, a little more loudly this time. "You're okay. Nobody's here but us, Dean."

Dean blinked once. Then again. Then sat back and wrapped his arms around his legs, the knife still tight in his hand, and rested his forehead on his knees.

Sam felt a prickle run up his spine and it was as though he was frozen, unable to think or move as he watched Dean's pain and fear bleed into the sable dusk that surrounded them.

The only light in the room was the faint, angry orange of the dying embers in the fireplace and Sam found himself mesmerized by them. His mind replayed flashes of imagery from his visions of Hell and he didn't know how long he'd been staring when he was startled by his brother's low sigh.

"Sorry, Sam," Dean said, his head still down.

"Sorry? You don't have to be sorry for anything, Dean," Sam insisted, guilt once again scathing his insides to the point of physical pain. He opened his mouth to say something else, but stopping short as he remembered Dean's earlier admonition. Taking a deep breath, he leaned back against the pole frame of his bed and sat cross-legged in front of his brother. He wanted to physically reach out, but the instinctive movement was also foreign and so he didn't.

Dean shifted, turning so his back rested against his own bed and buried the point of the knife violently in the pine floor beside him. His hands were loose on his knees and he leant his head against the mattress, closing his eyes.

"It's weird, the way it sneaks up on me," Dean said soberly, his eyes still shut. "You know that scared feeling—the one where your gut feels like an omelet being flipped?"

He didn't wait for an answer, and Sam couldn't think of anything to say anyway. "I used to feel it a lot as a kid. After Mom died and things were so crazy and we were moving all the time. Then when Dad started teaching me to hunt, telling me stories about all the nastiness that was really out there . . ."

Dean brought his hands up to his face and rubbed hard at his eyes and then his jaw. Sam couldn't see the expression on his face, but he could hear the sun-less humor in his brother's next words.

"Dad knew; knew how scared I was . . . but he didn't want me to be . . . so eventually I wasn't. I used to think it was because he was never afraid—" the chuckle was empty and frigid, "but now I figure he just couldn't face me being afraid because . . ."

He trailed off and it was Sam who finished the sentence with hushed gruffness.

"Because it reminded him of his own fear."

"Yeah," Dean finally whispered.

Sam considered Dean's words. It was the first time he'd heard Dean talk about fear in a long, long time—not since they were kids and Sam was terrified and his big brother was trying to help him deal with the monstrous life they were living.

They were silent for several minutes, lost in memories and dead dreams. Dean sighed heavily and reached for the knife, plucking it easily from the board that held it. Without effort or consideration he moved it easily back and forth between his hands; not quite tossing, but just dangerously enough that it would have drawn his father's criticism. Standing, he placed the blade on the nightstand, stretched his arms behind his head and stared at the ceiling.

"I'm tired, Sammy," he said, his voice low and laced with something dark and bereft.

"I know," Sam answered steadily as he looked up at his brother. It took a good deal of control not to wince at the tight, tugging sensation deep in his chest that was brought on by the emotion in Dean's words.

Dean lowered himself to the edge of the bed, his hands gripping the mattress. "I'm just so tired."

The ache Sam felt was nearly unbearable and his hands shook with the strain of holding it in. He stood and turned to sit next to Dean, a scant few inches separating their palms on the dark cotton quilt.

There was nothing Sam could think of to say to assuage the exhaustion and agony that he knew was eating at his brother. He'd spent a good deal of time battling similar companions himself in the last year. The only outs he'd ever really found were using Ruby (in whatever way she suggested) and drinking himself into the kind of oblivion where starting bar fights seemed reasonable. Granted, these didn't really help, but they managed to block the constant sensations he'd had of sleepwalking through a nightmare paired with utter desolation.

Sam was lost in his own thoughts and jumped when Dean moved suddenly and bumped his shoulder against Sam's.

"We should sleep. Demian will be here in a couple hours," Dean said, nodding toward the clock on the nightstand between their beds.

"Sure . . . yeah," Sam answered quickly, standing up and switching himself over to sit on his own bed. "Definitely."

Dean wasted no time shuffling himself under the covers and then reaching over to push the power button on the remote and turn the television off, so Sam wordlessly followed suit. With the TV off, the room was dark except for the glow around the edges of the curtains from the snow, whose brightness was magnified by the nearly full moon. They lay in the stillness for several minutes, before Sam heard Dean's voice again, quiet.

"Thanks, Sammy."

Caught off guard, Sam's question was automatic and he hated of his voice, jarring the silence.

"For what?"

And Dean answered slowly, with a sleepy tenderness that took Sam back a dozen years.

"For being born. For being my brother."


	7. Chapter 7

_Author's Note: This chapter hated me. It would not settle down and do what I wanted it to do. We're 2-3 chapters out at this point and I'm looking forward to action and angst for those last chapters. As always, thanks to the readers and especially the reviewers. I hope you like this one, but I want to hear from you either way :)_

**Chapter Seven**

Sam stirred, but didn't open his eyes, comfortable in the snug warmth of the big cedar post bed. He stretched and a smiled played across his face as he didn't slam into the footboard or nearly fall off. If nothing else, he'd remember this trip for the fact that Alaskan's knew how to build beds. For a double bed, this was roomier than most queens. Generally, Sam slept in relative discomfort: dirt-cheap motels were most often equipped with beds smaller than a pool table and Sam was . . . bigger than a pool table. There were nights when he actually wished he were sleeping with his head against the window of the Impala—it would've been more comfortable than the fake beds in some random room 78.

He stretched again and sighed, opening one eye and trying to focus on the gigantic moose antler-ed clock above the fireplace. Quarter past eight. The shower was probably what had woke him up, with the familiar murmur of the water washing away his brother's night; or more recently, nightmare. As usual he was in the bed closest to the bathroom; a holdover from his childhood that he and Dean had never discussed and never changed even though Sam had long ago outgrown his need to get to the bathroom fast in the middle of the night.

Closing his eyes he let the sound take him back, the memories of curling toward the water-warmed wall, listening to Dean tap a drum solo out on the faucet . . . waking up to the knowledge that Dean was still there, alive another day . . . it would never get old no matter how long they lived. Sam dozed again and then climbed back up through the fog at the click of the bathroom door opening.

"Rise and shine, princess," Dean said cheerily as he rounded the corner to stand at the end of Sam's bed, roughing his hair dry with a half decent hunter green towel.

Yawning big, Sam closed his eyes tight and therefore didn't see the damp towel coming until it landed over his head.

"Hey!"

"Go shower—you've got hot water 'cause this place must have an_ awesome_ huge water heater," Dean said, hefting his duffle onto the foot of his bed and digging through it for something relatively clean to put on.

"Ten more minutes," Sam groaned, tossing the towel on the floor and pulling the quilt up over his head.

"Nope."

"Dean—"

Sam was cut off by a knock at the door and Dean nodded, pointing in the direction of the sound.

"Demian called before I got in the shower and said his plane had landed," Dean said with a grin. "Get clean or hunt dirty, dude."

With that he buttoned his jeans and grabbed a t-shirt off the bed, pulling it on as he jogged across the room in bare feet to answer the door.

* * *

It had been years since the Winchesters had seen Demian Makarovich—Dean had been about seventeen the last time he'd seen him for a hunt where John and Demian had joined forces to deal with a nasty siren coven off the coast of Florida. John had liked the Russian and the two had done additional work together off and on, but Demian's hunting grounds were European in nature for the most part.

In spite of the long separation and their lack of actually knowing each other, Makarovich wordlessly pushed Dean's handshake away and enveloped him what could only be described as a _serious_ bear hug. It took all of Sam's restraint to not to chuckle audibly as he watched his brother squirm in the older man's embrace.

His mirth turned to discomfort as Demian, who himself resembled a bear in a number of ways, released Dean and strode into the room toward Sam with arms open wide—It was then that the younger Winchester remembered his Dad calling the hunter "Old Bear". Finally the embracing was over (which was about three times to long for Dean), and Demian spoke.

"The sons of the John Winchester," he said, his heavily accented voice laced with near-reverence.

Neither Sam nor Dean knew how to respond and just before the silence grew truly awkward Demian spoke, rubbing his hands together briskly.

"Well, well—I'm glad you called me!" he grinned, the smile half-hidden behind the lavish beard and handlebar mustache. "I've been longing for yetis for many years now!"

"Glad we could help you out," Dean said in amusement.

"Most certainly! Shall we begin our preparations?" he asked, not waiting for a reply but pulling out his cell phone and speed-dialing a number . "My men are waiting downstairs—I'll tell them to unload the gear and then we will begin. There is much mixing of concoction and discussing of stratagem to attend to before the darkness comes."

With that he spoke briefly in Russian to whoever answered the phone while Sam and Dean exchanged startled looks.

"Breakfast?" he then asked, and without waiting for reply, strode to the desk, picked up the phone, and began to order enough room service for an army. An irritated frown wiped the stunned look of Dean's face, and Sam decided that this might be a good time to escape—he had no wish to get between the Alpha dogs in this case. So he pulled his duffle out from under the bed and headed to the bathroom before Demian got off the phone.

"Your men?" Dean asked, trying to control his voice and moving casually back to his bed to pick up socks and steel-toed boots and taking them to the overstuffed chair in the far corner of the room to put on. "I didn't realize you'd brought back up."

"Ah, Dean," Demian sighed, shaking his head in weary dejection. "When a man reaches a certain age, he must either give up the hunt, die because he moves to slowly, or enlist the help of next generation to keep him in the game."

Dean nodded, keeping his head down as he laced his boots with deliberate slowness.

"I am not one—much like you and your father before you—who can sit on a rocking chair while evil flies by in fury, onward towards its next victim," he paused and then chuckled, turning to stare out the room's single picture window, "but I have no wish to die simply because I move more like a tortoise than a hare these days!"

Finished with his boots, Dean stood, studying the older man and trying to decide where to start. He remembered Demian and the hunter was much the same—jovial, touchy-feely, and take-charge in a presumptive, passive aggressive way. He'd been a good friend, but had also driven John Winchester a little nuts and there was always a collective sigh of relief among the hunters when a job was done Markarovich finally moved on.

The sound of the shower being shut off in the next room was enough to shake both men from their reveries.

"So you have tracked the beast—seen it?" Demian asked, turning from the window.

"Yeah," Dean answered with a nod, "it wasn't too far out when we caught up with it. We stayed as clear of it as we could, but it's definitely not your average polar bear."

Demian smiled gleefully and Dean found that a little unsettling. Sam and Dean had their own brand of hunt-humor, but their dad's training never let them forget the seriousness of the situations they were in. They hunted because it was right, and because it was their job, not because it was . . . _fun_. They'd met scores of hunters over the years who'd taken that road and John had been adamant that they understood the difference between sport and duty—those that hunted the supernatural for sport rarely lived to share more than a handful of gory stories.

"I spent my childhood listening to my uncles tell stories of this creature and had almost given up hope of living to see one!" he exclaimed, gesturing wildly.

Dean's reply was cut short by a single rap to the door of the room and Sam simultaneously exiting the bathroom. Sam was closest and when he answered the door and stood back to admit those on the other side, the look he gave Dean might have appeared neutral, but his brother saw the alarm in his eyes.

Four men dressed casually but with unmistakable military bearing, marched into the room and stood at near-attention in front of the Russian. The hair on the backs of both Winchester necks were standing up and Dean cursed inwardly for being so far away from a weapon. He could tell Sam was thinking the same thing. Literally bringing in troops was not a great way to keep a hunt (or hunters who may or may not be wanted fugitives) under the radar. Nor was bringing along a bunch of people they didn't know when the invitation had not been specifically issued a good way to earn the Winchesters trust.

"Boys, boys—find a place to sit," Demian said, "food should be here soon and then we shall have breakfast and conversation before we prepare for tonight's hunting."

His four men visibly relaxed and Demian took charge again. "Let's take this table to the center—" he said with wave toward the small game table on the opposite side of the room, "and bring the ones from your rooms as well."

They moved in two pairs, the first stepping around Dean to reach the square wooden table and the other leaving to follow the directions to gather the furniture Markarovich required.

Sam watched his brother's temper rise and quickly stowed his gear under the bed, stepping in. It felt awkward but necessary. After he was about ten and began to refuse to hold his tongue it was more likely by about a million times to be Dean stepping between John and Sam than the other way around, but the feeling was familiar—a prickle of peacemaking discomfort he'd felt whenever he had to keep Dean and their dad from killing each other.

"So, tell us what you have in mind, Demian," Sam asked smoothly.

"We eat, we mix the poison, we hunt the monster when the sun sets," Makarovich said with ease. The bear-man settled himself into a chair, rattling in Russian to the two men who had already seated themselves while Sam watched his brother. He could have sworn he heard Dean growl.


	8. Chapter 8

_Author's Note: Thanks to Chinakat Rose & Dreamlitnight for the reviews of the last chapter, you rock! Thanks to Julia and hitchcock-starlet for the wc-increasing wars. Let me know what you think and what you're hoping for as we wrap this up, folks __Thanks, thanks, thanks _

**Chapter 8**

Demian was stepping over an invisible line of time-honored hunt etiquette and Sam hoped this wouldn't get messy if the invited continued to boss the inviter around.

Further conversation was cut off by the arrival of the guys, carrying the tables and chairs from their room, which they set up according to Demian's specifications just in time for room service delivery.

Over French toast, quiche and the bacon Dean called down for when he realized none had been ordered, the four dudes were introduced as Misha, Yuri, Blake and Connor.

"So how did you guys meet Demian?" Sam asked, taking a long swallow of pulpy orange juice.

The four glanced at each other and Yuri spoke first.

"Misha and I are cousins," he said in decent English. "Our families have hunted to protect the Russian people of the _taiga_ for generations." Pausing, he reached for the syrup. "Demian is a distant relation, and we've worked with him often in the past few years."

"When he told us he was hunting yeti in America, we insisted on coming with him," Misha grinned. "Of all our legends, it is the yeti which are . . ." he struggled to find the word he wanted, "the most respected, the most fantastic."

There was chewing and silence for several minutes, and then Sam prodded again.

"So, what's your story?" he asked Blake.

Glancing at Connor, Blake cleared his throat and leaned back in his chair. "Con and I are from California—we've been friends since second grade, surfing and hanging at the beach and stuff."

"About a year ago we were catching waves just up the coast from Zuma Beach. There hasn't been anyone there for a long time—a bunch of people had died in freak 'accidents' back in the '80's."

Dean raised and eyebrow, "Freak as in our kind of freak?"

The two men nodded and Connor picked up the story. "We were attacked by a sea creature. Didn't know what it was at first, but our buddy Luke didn't get away. They killed him."

"The cops thought we were high, or maybe just in shock," Blake interjected, "that it had been a rogue wave and some big rocks, but we knew what we had seen, and it wasn't a rock."

"We started looking online, trying to figure out what it was, looking for similar stories. That's how Demian found us," Connor finished.

"I had Misha—he's the computer man—set a net of sorts to find strange things people were searching for and tag them for further investigation," Makarovich said, nodding at the slightly rumpled man to his left, the delight in his own cleverness obvious.

"What was it?" Sam asked, ignoring the glower his curiosity garnered from Dean.

"Curtag Mhòr a' Chuain," Connor said quietly.

"The Beast of the Sea?" Sam said as his eyebrows rose in amazement. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that it's real, or even off the coast of California, but that's incredible!"

"Nasty piece of work," Blake growled, the set of his jaw effectively ending the direction of the conversation.

* * *

There was little talk during the rest of the meal and as Mararovich finished eating he leaned back in his chair, a sigh of contentment pushing itself through pursed lips.

"So, shall we begin?" he asked.

Somber nods were all around and Dean spoke up.

"What's your plan?"

"Where has your reconnaissance shown the beast is spending its nights?" Demian asked.

"No, we called you as soon as we spotted and were able to guess at what it was," Sam said, "With the cold and dark, we figured it was better to wait until you showed up with your expertise than to try and track it alone."

Demian growled in displeasure. "So we are not ready to make our move then," he said and turned a little to glare at Dean. "I thought you would have done your work before I arrived."

"Hey—don't get grumpy with me," Dean growled back, "you made it clear on the phone that these were seriously dangerous monsters and that _we needed your help_ to take them down."

"But simple surveillance?" Demian snorted in irritation.

Sam broke in, holding up a palm toward each man in the universal gesture of "whoa-back".

"Hey—we didn't know what you'd want, Makarovich," he said, hardness underlying his smooth tone. "No point in freezing to death when the plan hadn't been shared."

Demian tilted his head as he eyed Sam with a gaze of evaluation. "You didn't get your peacemaking skills from your father," he finally said and then gave a tight nod and turned his attention back to Dean.

"Take Yuri and Blake as soon as twilight falls. Track the yeti to its burrow and—"

"Burrow?" Sam asked, glancing at Dean.

"They do not live in caves like Hollywood shows in the movies," Demian chuckled. "They live underground in a maze of warrens, although it may not be a large compound if the population has remained small . . ." his voice trailed off when he saw Dean's face drain of all color.

"This is a problem?" he asked, his overgrown eyebrows meeting in a frown.

Sam felt time slow down as Dean tried to hide his terror at the thought of being underground, wandering in a dark labyrinth. _No surprise there_, he thought.

"We're a good team; we'd prefer work together," Sam said with a nod at his brother, eyes steely and voice quiet. "Here or there is fine."

There was no compromise in the statement and Sam didn't back down from the Russian man's stare. Dean seemed frozen and the tension in the room was as chill as ice.

Demian shrugged, glancing at his men. "Stay then, and my boys will track the monsters. They're used to the cold," he grinned. "We will make the poison and prepare the guns."

"We'll go," Dean said quietly and then cleared his throat and pushed back from the table to stand up. "You can stay, but Sam and I will hunt the yeti and bring you back a map of the warren."

"Dean, he said we could work on the weapon—" Sam began.

"No need, Sammy," Dean grinned with his mask firmly in place and Sam was silenced. "Any pointers, Demian?"

Makarovich and his men were clearly puzzled by the change in the atmosphere, but Demian recovered quickly.

"Take someone with you, please—we don't need so many for the guns," he offered cheerfully.

"Blake," Dean answered, making brief eye contact with the tall bleached-blond man.

"Certainly," Demian nodded. "He's been briefed and can tell you anything about the yeti that you wish to know."

Dean gave a curt nod and suddenly seemed to realize there was nowhere to go. It was only 10am and dusk wouldn't come for another four hours and Demian didn't seem to be in a hurry to leave the Winchester's room.

Connor broke the tension and broke up the party, "We should get some shut eye if we're going to be up late tonight."

* * *

"So, what kind of tracks are we looking for?" Sam asked Blake as he pulled on his gloves and wiggled his fingers to settle them in.

"The one we saw was up in the trees," Dean said.

"We'll check the trees first," Blake replied. "Look for broken limbs, big branches on the ground—they tend to cause a lot of damage. Then we can follow it from there back to the warrens."

Sam shook his head. "Rabbits. I never would have figured they lived like rabbits."

"Hey does that mean they breed like bunnies too?" Dean asked, suspicion heavy in his voice. "Are we going to be dealing with a gazillion of these suckers?"

Blake gave a wry laugh. "Probably not. Gestation is almost a year and they only have one baby monster at a time. The population would've needed to be substantial to start with in order to hit anything close to a gazillion."

"How do we know it wasn't?" asked Dean. "We could be dealing with the total underground colonization of giant freaking bunnies," he muttered as he struggled into his balaclava.

Sam rolled his eyes and opened the lodge door, leading the small troupe out into the frozen semi-darkness of the Alaskan evening.


	9. Chapter 9

_Author's Note: So I inadvertently published chapters 8 & 9 stuck together. I fixed it, but am going to keep them both up instead of holding 9 until next week as I had initially planned __Action time!_

**Chapter 9**

They started in the spot Sam and Dean had seen the yeti, and the three hunters made quick work of following its trail back to the warren. It had definitely been back to the water's edge since the Winchester's initial sighting, and even with the wind causing drifts and the additional snowfall the broken branches and smashed undergrowth weren't hard to track.

It was full dark by the time they reached a small clearing several miles from the river with several man-sized boulders in the center, and they all had their night-vision goggles on. As they stood at the edge of thick woods through which they had come, Blake pointed and spoke quietly.

"There—on the left side of the tallest rock, I'll bet that's the entrance."

Sam and Dean studied the shadow on the snow, noting the depression in the earth beneath and that the surface was undisturbed.

"Does Demian expect us to go in?" Sam asked Blake.

"Just enough to make sure the entrance is clear and that this is really the place and not an older, abandoned burrow."

Sam glanced at his brother and Dean looked away.

"Let's go then," Sam said softly, the pit of his stomach heavy and tight. "Let's get this over with."

They spread out and approached the stone, giving it wide berth. As they rounded the dark side of the boulder, the depression showed itself to be top of a path leading down into a hole about four feet in diameter.

By unspoken consensus they tightened into a 3-point formation with Blake at the head. He held a bowie knife in each hand and behind him Sam and Dean had their weapons drawn too. The passage was about twenty yards long and the incline was very gradual; they probably weren't more than ten feet under when they reached the bottom.

A few more feet down the corridor and the first burrow opened off the left. It wasn't a large cavern and it only took a glance to tell it was empty. Blake gave a nod and the three quietly kept moving, the ice crunching what seemed too loudly beneath their feet. The end of the tunnel wasn't visible and seemed to go on forever.

The next burrow was empty as well, and it wasn't until they reached the third one that Sam realized Dean wasn't next to him—that he had fallen behind and was standing stock still, hands loose at his side. The shadows made it difficult to see, even with the night vision, but Sam paused and tapped Blake on the shoulder and Blake stopped, waiting.

Taking a pace back, Sam reached for Dean and touched his arm. "You okay?" he mouthed, ducking his head to meet his brother's eyes. Dean flinched and met Sam's gaze and Sam took a step back, the look on Dean's face making his blood run chill.

Fierce and haunted at the same time, Dean was rigid, his jaw clenched. The silver pistol in his right hand dangled from his trigger finger and Sam watched his left hand clenching and unclenching shakily. For a moment the only movement was that hand and the languid puff of his warm breath in the frozen air.

Then, closing his eyes, he twisted his neck as if working out a kink and gave a sharp nod. Sam watched as Dean swallowed hard and began moving again. Reaching Blake and Sam in two strides he gave them a "what are we waiting for" look. After Sam gave a reluctant nod to his questioning gaze, Blake took the lead again and they moved stealthily forward through the frigid labyrinth.

They cleared a dozen more burrows, some down meandering passageways leading of the main hall causing them to backtrack several times, and some right off of it like the first couple were. Each was empty and tomb-like until they reached the very end of the tunnel.

It dead-ended at ceiling height entrances to twin caves, both covered with panels woven from what appeared to be saplings and small branches, barren of foliage. The primitive doors reached the ceilings and weren't attached to anything; just leant in front of the holes and braced against the sides of the openings.

Sam felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck and shared a look with his brother. Real bunnies didn't weave Easter baskets, or doors. Either the assumption that the yeti were dumb, violent, beasts was wrong, or someone else was down here.

Blake signaled that he would take the right and the Winchesters should take the left and they would pull aside the crude hatches at the same time. Holding up his fisted hand, Blake held up his fingers one at a time and on three, Sam and Blake each grabbed a door and tossed them aside while Dean steadied a gun at one opening and held a knife ready in the other. Blake and Sam instantly had their own weapons up and the three men scanned the interiors of the caves for any threat. Slowly they crept into the room on the right.

At first glance the spaces seemed cluttered, especially when compared to the empty burrows they'd already cleared. There wasn't anything living in either cave but there were piles cluttering the floors and things hanging from the walls and the ceiling. They stood and stared and after a few moments Blake spoke quietly.

"Weird. Demian didn't say anything about them being hoarders . . ." he trailed off, continuing to survey the room.

"Bones," Dean said, his voice low and hoarse.

Sam and Blake immediately realized that Dean was right. There were piles of bones, skulls mounted on the walls, strings of bones hanging down from the cavern's roof. Sam felt his stomach flip flop at the gruesome sight.

It was Dean that walked further in and began to examine the remains, looking for any signs of the people who had supposedly been taken by the monster in the last few months—signs of anything human. Blake and Sam followed suit, splitting up.

Several minutes later Blake hissed to his companions. He turned and held something up—on the tip of his bowie hung a silver chain with a turquoise pendant on it. It didn't spark as a specific clue, but it was definitely a sign of civilization. Nothing else was evident after searching the rest of the room, so they moved on to the other burrow. This one was slightly smaller than the first one and again, they split up to investigate.

"Over here," Sam whispered.

Dean swore as they came close enough to see definition in the grisly pile Sam stood in front of. Human skeletons and clothing lay jumbled together. The bones were clean and juxtaposed eerily with the shredded garments which were dirty and covered with dark stains.

Turning away, there were no words amongst the three men as they continued a cursory search of the room. Against the far wall there was a woven frame similar to the doors and covered with brush and scraps of random furry animal hides. The nest was surrounded by small stacks of stones, one on top of another like miniature sentries keeping watch. Again, Sam's spine prickled at the thought that the monster could think enough to create something artistic or militarily useful. Intelligent monsters were significantly harder to kill.

"Enough for the old man?" Dean rumbled quietly at Blake.

The moon was fully raised as they headed back to the lodge and in its anemic light Sam couldn't keep his eyes off his brother. It wasn't just fire that spooked Dean now. He wondered if it was the dark, or the closed space, or being underground or an alchemy of it all that had spiked Dean's fear in the warrens and Sam felt panic churning in his gut.

He'd felt almost hopeful after the talking they had done the night before, but seeing Dean fighting so hard to keep his terror in check brought back every ounce of anxiety Sam had for his brother. The ashen landscape and frozen temperature fit the icy dread Sam felt whirling inside. Hope was always slippery for the Winchesters and Sam wasn't sure he could hold on to it for the both of them if Dean couldn't do it anymore.


End file.
